


Lightning Rod

by a_nonny_moose



Series: 100 Quote Prompts [26]
Category: Markiplier Egos
Genre: you guys seem to like the bim x everyone tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 08:16:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13971000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nonny_moose/pseuds/a_nonny_moose
Summary: Bim is desperate, and desperate hearts are easily corrupted...





	Lightning Rod

“I will never die!”

“Please sit down, Bim,” Dr. Iplier said, rolling his eyes. He set their mugs down on the kitchen table with a _clunk_ , coffee sloshing down the sides. 

“No, listen, Doc.” Bim leaned forward, eyes bright. “I can _do_ _this_.”

“Bim.” Dr. Iplier held up a hand, stopping him. “I know that you don’t like it, but every one of us is going to die, all right?”

“Harsh, much?” Bim paced the kitchen, still refusing to sit down, coffee forgotten. “If you don’t believe me, I’ll do it on my own.”

Dr. Iplier shook his head, taking a sip from his own mug. “I don’t—”

“Don’t worry about me,” Bim sang, waltzing out of the kitchen. “I’ll save us all, just you wait.”

The door slammed shut behind him, and Dr. Iplier sighed. Mark had announced his retirement less than a month ago, and most of them had already gone through their grief. 

Well. Most of them. 

* * *

The Host was the one that had brought them the news, an uncharacteristic laugh breaking through the after-dinner chatter. 

“He’s retiring.”

“He’s _what_?” Wilford stood, the room suddenly hushed. 

The Host nearly giggled, a smile twisting his features, blood already starting to run down his face. “He put up a video—you should really watch it, Will, it’s _hilarious_ —about shutting down the channel. Isn’t that funny?”

Dark stood at that, shell splintering into a thousand pieces in rage. “Excuse me?” He’d aged with Mark, as they all had, laugh lines along his cheeks twisted into a dangerous snarl, half-hidden silver hairs now completely obscured by miasma. 

The Host laughed again, fingers scrabbling at his face, his bandages. “He sure does love his jokes, huh?”

“He won’t _dare_ ,” Dark spat, looking over at Wilford. “I’ll kill him myself.”

“Wait, wait—” Bim was on his feet, hands outstretched. “That doesn’t mean that this is _it_ , right? We can still—y’know—right?”

Dr. Iplier slumped in his chair, finality washing over him. It was over. It was all over, with only a downhill slope ahead. 

The Googles were the first to spot the danger, walking out of the room with an air of resignation. It was only logical, after all. It was only inevitable. It was their acceptance, more than anything, that pushed Dark over the edge. 

In the end, all of them were too far gone. 

* * *

Wilford and Dark functionally disappeared: Once Dark had managed to corral his aura to his own room, he rarely, if ever, emerged. Anger, hatred, radiated from his room, and the others felt it each time they walked past. Arguments in the hallways, until they learned to avoid Dark’s room altogether. 

Wilford set to work on their seven hundredth backup plan, pulling Bim into the studio in a frenzy. Day and night, they worked with their magic spilling out of their ears, feverish. If the others stopped to look in, it was hard to distinguish pink from purple, Bim’s drawn, knit brow from Wilford’s frantic stare. 

Dr. Iplier, once the Host had been sedated and confined to his room, stared into space for a week. There was a crushing, chest-squeezing kind of emptiness around him that he couldn’t shake away. The futility of it all kept the Doctor under for days, until the Host came looking. 

The Host, denial upon denial, ravaged his own room. No, he wasn’t fading. He was the god of this world, his plots, his characters, his, his, his. Nothing happened without him controlling it. No, no, he couldn’t fade. There was a broken baseball bat, finally dented and splintered and bloodied against his own walls. 

Denial of the facts met hopeless pessimism, and Dr. Iplier found a little solace in the Host’s pain. 

From then on, the Doctor worked as hard as he could. There was nothing to do—they were all dead, anyway. Nothing to do but to do everything he could. He lined needles up to his veins, forcing himself forward with jerky movements and unnamed pills crushed into his coffee. It would do, for now. 

The Googles took a moment to mourn, and went to work. They were more human now than ever, and the others seemed to forget that they had bodies of flesh rather than metal. Every day, twice a day, they’d make their rounds. 

The Host and Dark first, a quick knock on each of their doors. They never responded, but there was always a plate of food outside for them. Sometimes, Google_G swore that there was a bite or two taken out of the meal. He hoped beyond hope that there was. 

The Doctor next, Google_R pulling him away from his work for a carefully timed five minutes. Dr. Iplier bolted down food and took a swig of juice, some medicine that Google_R didn’t dare ask the name of, and it was back to work, even with shaking fingers.

It took both Oliver and Google_B, joints beginning to corrode, to pull Wilford and Bim down long enough to set food in front of them. Wilford ate everything that wasn’t a vegetable before floating off again, a blur of activity, and Google_B could only sigh. 

Bim sat for minutes, longer than the others, and Oliver was grateful. 

* * *

“Oliver?” Bim picked at his food, eyes far away, jaw set. 

“Yes, Bim?” Oliver beeped faintly, watching Wilford quite literally ricochet off the walls. His hands ached for something, anything to do, but they were far beyond that luxury now.

“Do you think this is silly, what we’re doing?” Bim searched Oliver’s face until the robot looked back at him, eyes flickering in confusion. 

“You mean attempting to ‘save’ us?”

“Yeah. That.”

Oliver shook his head slightly, the pain of moving already working its way through his shoulders. More oil. “It is an end in itself, Bim. Whether or not it succeeds is irrelevant.”

“So you don’t think we can do it?” Bim’s voice was suddenly hard, and Oliver looked away. 

“I did not say that.”

“But you thought it.” Bim stood up, pushing the plate of nearly untouched food away. “See you later, Googs.”

* * *

Bim had a plan, of course. He was the most ambitious of them all, the youngest with a calling for power. The magic had made a deal with him, and Bim, being Bim, was about to deliver.

He started with Dr. Iplier, the way he had a lifetime ago. 

“Hey, Doc?”

“Yeah, Bim?” 

“I just…” Bim brushed his hair back, letting himself seem smaller, and sidled up to Dr. Iplier. His aura, the lightest shade of lavender, wrapped its current around them. It wasn’t much to go on, but for Bim, for the tired Doctor, it was enough. “I was just wondering how you are.”

“I’m all right,” Dr. Iplier sighed, feeling the tug of the waves from far, far away. “It’s just harder every day.” He rubbed his arm, track marks fading, but not fast enough. 

“Oh, Doc,” Bim simpered, winding himself closer, a hand wrapped around Dr. Iplier’s, cradling his fingers. “Let me help you, hmm?”

“Hmm?” Dr. Iplier was too taxed to feel Bim’s arms at his waist, the sudden warmth in his chest. Bim’ lips were cool and soft against his, the light pressure asking for permission. 

Dr. Iplier was late to the clinic that day, and attributed it to Bim. He was tired, and annoyed, and working harder than ever; not once did he notice the sudden draining of his magic from blue to white, the weakness that crept its way into his limbs. 

No one noticed the way that Bim’s aura had darkened to plum until it was too late for the rest of them. 

He approached the Host next, soft, gentle, against the Host’s bloodied, broken hands. Bim worked his way up, here, the barest brush of his mouth against the Host’s fingers. It didn’t take long for the Host to lean forward to take Bim’s lips with his own, all the power of the Host’s throat explored by Bim’s tongue. 

The Host stumbled more often, found himself losing track of sentences and stories. It was the magic draining away, the fans losing sight of him, he convinced himself. Never mind Bim’s aura patrolling the hallway in waves. Never mind the weakness of his heart. Only the fans, and nothing more. 

* * *

Bim intended to go to Dark with his stolen magic, a plan laid out beyond either of their wildest dreams for power. He knocked on the door with his aura fighting the shadows, flat, bottomless pools of smoke. 

“What do you want?” Dark snarled, throwing the door open. It took all of Bim’s control to not flinch back: Dark was a hundred years old, and showed every bit of it in the corpse poking though his puppeted skin. 

“I bring you an offer,” Bim started, and even now, his voice was coated in honey. “A plan.”

The wave of Bim’s aura, washing over the hallway, and Dark stood aside to let him in.

Dark’s office was destroyed, furniture floating in a void. Dark sat, stiff, and Bim followed suit. He tried not to pay attention to the pairs of red, glowing eyes, following him around the room. He tried not to shudder, feeling the huff of bloodstained breath on the back of his neck. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Dark, for every inch that he was dying and defeated, was ever the gentleman. His suit didn’t fit quite right, and a bitterness exuded from him in waves of nausea. 

Bim held his hands out, and Dark watched as they glowed first purple, then a stolen, electric, blue. 

“I can do more,” Bim said, watching Dark’s eyebrows raise. “If Dark finds himself surprised—”

“The Doctor _and_ the Host,” Dark murmured, sitting back. “You’ve managed to impress me.”

Bim flushed with pleasure, letting the magic drain away. “Do you think it can help?”

“Help what?”

“To save us.”

Dark scoffed, looking away. There was a flicker of hope in his own chest, but nothing to compare the unrestrained blaze in Bim’s. “We don’t need to be saved. We’re not going anywhere.”

“I wish it were true as much as you do,” Bim snapped, suddenly leaning forward, teeth bared. “But that’ not, and the sooner you get over yourself and stop _moping_ , the sooner you can help me fix this.”

Dark met Bim’s eyes with something approaching surprise, respect. “What do you expect to do about it, then?’ Anger lined his every word, like steel, and it was Bim’s turn to shrink back, afraid he’d overstepped. “Resurrect the channel? Force Mark back into making videos? Better yet, kill him and take control altogether?”

“I have a plan,” Bim repeated, voice small, but confident. In a moment, he met Dark’s eye as an equal, and stuck out a hand. “I’m not asking for permission. I’m asking if you want in.”

“You’re bargaining with fire.”

“I’m making a deal, aren’t I?”

Dark hesitated, then shook Bim’s hand lightly, the flicker of hope growing into a flame. “Fine. I’m in.”

Bim drew back, eyeing Dark. “I need more of this—” he clenched his fists, blue and purple flashes of light, “—to make it work. Do you think—”

Dark looked up at his aura, still busy destroying his room, destroying him from the inside out. “Wilford first, if you have what it takes,” he sneered, trying not to betray the lightness of his chest. 

In a wink, Bim was gone, and Dark had a feeling that one of them had made a deal with the devil—but he wasn’t sure which. 

* * *

Wilford was trickier than the others, and Bim paced his room with his hands tucked behind his back. His shoulders ached, he had yet to sleep: and yet, there was a burning ambition propelling him forward. 

The magic had chosen him, after all.

The answer came to him as answers often do—in the dead of the night, a moment before defeat. 

* * *

Wilford didn’t notice much, at the best of times. Now, the others were lucky if Wilford checked to see that the space in front of his gun was clear of objects or people. He certainly didn’t notice that the Host and Dr. Iplier had stopped coming out of their rooms, the hallways barren. 

Bim slipped into the studio fifteen minutes late, hoping that Wilford would notice. 

“Trimmer!” Wilford barreled towards him, arms full of spare wires. “About time, get to places, now!”

“R-right,” Bim stuttered, casting his eyes down. He was depending on two things: Wilford’s reckless protectiveness, and his stupid, stupid loyalty. “Got it.”

Wilford paused for a moment, spotting the tremor in Bim’s voice. “You all right there?” 

“Mm-hmm.” Bim whimpered a little, scurrying up on stage, and made sure that Wilford’s eyes were on him before he staggered. 

“Bim!” Nearly a decade of partnership in the studio lent itself well, and Wilford hurried forward, albeit only half-concerned. “If you’re getting sick, we don’t have time—”

“I’m sorry,” Bim whispered, getting to his feet, careful to avoid Wilford’s eye. He couldn’t hide the triumph, the heady sense of power that came with Wilford nearly at his knee. In careful, measured waves, Bim let his aura begin to wash over the two of them. 

“Is-is something wrong?” The magic was unexpected—all of them had been rationing what was left of it—and Wilford was caught entirely off guard as the waves started to sweep him away. “Hey, Bim—” Wilford grabbed gently at his arm, trying to catch hold of him.

Bim flinched, hard, a lifetime of reflexes just enough to exaggerate his fear. He let the sleeve pull up, just enough to show the ugly bruises circling his wrists, the ginger way he covered his ribs with one hand. 

“Bim,” Wilford gasped, eyes fogged purple. “I—I’m—”

“It’s nothing,” Bim hurried, pulling down the sleeves in a horribly pathetic effort to hide his wrists. It was only makeup, after all, but convincing enough. 

In a moment, just as planned, Wilford’s face hardened. He knelt, approaching Bim the way he’d beckon a cowering animal. “Who?” A single syllable, hard as flint. 

Bim let his eyes flick up, terror masking glee. Wilford scanned his black eye with a huff, hands already curled around his knife. 

“It was—it was Dark, but—”

“I’ll kill him.”

“Will, please—” Bim reached out with shaking fingers, inwardly marveling at the way his aura leaped forward with him, a powerful current pushing them forward. “Please,” Bim repeated, finding the cuff of Wilford’s sleeve. “Just—” he winced, well-timed, with a hand pressed to his ribs, “—just stay.”

Wilford collapsed on the stage next to Bim, gathering him close. Any other time, Bim would have felt guilty, using his best friend like this. 

For now, all was fair in love and war, and this was a bit of both. 

Bim’s aura was starting to run dry, pooling itself around them. He had to move quickly, and the chance may never come again. 

Wilford was talking into the curve of Bim’s shoulder, muffled affirmations and reassurance. Bim only caught some of it: “My fault—He’ll never touch you again—Asking for a stabbing—”

“Will,” Bim whispered, drawing his face close, surprised to find the wetness of tears seeping into his suit. Maybe he’d gone too far. 

The thought was dashed as his aura whirled around them, running out of steam, as they all were, but more determined each second. Ambition, ambition, and _power_ , and nothing else mattered. Bim had to be in control. 

Wilford looked at him, a gentle finger tracing the outline of Bim’s eye, carefully painted black and blue. Bim felt his breath on his face, burnt sugar.

The chance may never come again. 

This kiss was different, somehow, then all the others. Bim had kissed every figment in the office at some point or another: it came with being the resident incubus. They had always been kind kisses, some longer than others, some harder than others. Each time, pulling away with eyes blown wide and a lavender tint. 

This kiss was cold, a necrophile’s dream. Wilford’s half was wet, chaste, and Bim kissed him hard with all the focus of leeching the magic from his lips, pink roses nearly wilted. 

Bim broke it first, magic tingling across his skin, a sudden fear furrowing his brow. “Will? Are you… okay?”

“Let’s get you taken care of first, slugger,” Wilford murmured, getting to his feet. Bim scrambled up, holding Wilford in place as he swayed. 

“That’s—that’s all right, Will, why don’t we just sit down?”

“Mmm.” Wilford allowed himself to be half-carried to the green room and deposited on a couch, and Bim, turning to go, had a horrible twist of satisfaction. Wilford was gray, even as Mark had aged, grayer than usual. The pink faded from his skin, and Bim could have mistaken him for a corpse. 

Bim, on the other hand…

He lifted his hands up to eye level, watching the stolen magic dance across his fingertips. Purple mixed with blue mixed with pink, and Bim felt like laughing. He was so much _more_ , now. And, if his plan worked, he always would be. 

* * *

Dark’s office was in chaos as Bim slipped in, looking around. Dark’s aura had ripped shimmering holes in the air, different dimensions shining through in rainbow, in colors that Bim wasn’t sure existed. Bim dodged them all, making for the center. The aura drew back, and Bim could fool himself into thinking that it _knew_ , now. 

“Dark.”

“What do you want?” The words came out harsh, bitten through clenched teeth. Dark looked up, hair swept back from his hands running through it. Bim, looking down, felt a stab of pity. Dark was falling apart, like the office, like their security; blood or miasma or likely, both, dribbled down his front, face stained and raw. His suit was torn, hands jerking unnaturally. 

Bim held up his hands again, pink trapped between his palms. “I got it.”

Dark managed to straighten up, looking Bim up and down. His hair was swept forward, shirt unbuttoned down his front. Smudges of makeup still lined his face, a cruel, unfamiliar glare. “And?”

“And now I—we—can save the office.” Bim tilted his head to the side, watching Dark closely. Not with enthusiasm, but something like mockery. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Dark spat a mouthful of something wet and black onto the floor, just missing Bim’s shoes. “We’re going to be forgotten anyway, Trimmer.”

“We are _not_.” Bim’s voice was hard, and Dark looked up to meet the deadened eyes of what looked like a mirror, glaring back at him. It wasn’t Bim’s voice, not quite—there was a familiar echo, the growl of a dog, the creaking of floorboards. “Mark, the fans, whoever—they can’t kill an idea. I will _never_ die.”

Dark did all he could: he cracked a smile, looking around them. “On the contrary,” he said, turning back to what used to be Bim, “I think you’ve already been forgotten.” 


End file.
